Blessings Galore…

Although it’s almost 9 am, the house is quiet; which is quite a feat with 16 people in the house. The aroma of Gerald’s famous Creole turkey fills the air and shortly there will be all the fixings to go with it. Today is Thanksgiving, but I have been filled with thanks all week. I could have passed on having a math test Tuesday afternoon, but it is great to have the house full of friends and family. There is no greater feeling than knowing you can be yourself, and know you are still loved anyway. It is quite amazing to see how beautiful our kids are, inside and out. I know, everyone thinks their kids are amazing, but mine are amazing people. This semester in school we read a poem by Ben Jonson he wrote just after the death of his first son who was only seven years old.

On My First Son

by Ben Jonson

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;

My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.

Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

Oh, could I lose all father now ! For why

Will man lament the state he should envy?

To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,

And if no other misery, yet age !

Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, Here doth lie

Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such

As what he loves may never like too much.

Our professor asked us what the last line meant, what does he mean using the words “love” and “like” in that way. Being the only mom in the room, I raised my hand… As a parent we will always love our children, no matter their shortcomings, or choices – good or bad, but to truly like them means that even if they were your children you would like being with the anyway. In this time that is a rare occurrence. Usually people think that to love someone is the greater act; however in this instance to “like” is actually a more profound emotion. There is no doubt of my love for my children, but I truly “like” who they are. They are so much fun to be around, but it is amazing to see their interaction with people. They have good and compassionate hearts, full of wit, overflowing with personality, each one so different from the others but all of them intelligent and beautiful.

Kirsten Mullen is my Hero!

A previous post is concerning my Renaissance Literature class. It is indeed challenging and Armitage while always entertaining is really a tough instructor. I thoroughly enjoy the class, but dread the tests and assignments with fear and trembling.

My other English class is polar opposite. It is Introduction to Folklore and while it started out quite interesting about the Brothers Grimm, I have this love / hate relationship with the class. The last several weeks we have been focused on the North Carolina hill country ballad singers and bluegrass. While this was interesting for the first couple of classes, it drug on and on and on…. There is only so much bluegrass a person can take. One video on the tradition of telling “Jack Tales” in the NC mountains was so bad I couldn’t understand a word the man was saying. Literally, I sat there for 20 minutes with a blank stare. I’m not sure if it was his mountain, southern accent, his mumbling, the horrible film quality… I had no idea what the guy was saying. So now I’m thinking not only do I need bifocals, I need a hearing aid. (I was truly relived in recitation that week that even the young kids didn’t understand this man.) This past week in Folk we had a pleasant surprise. A wonderful guest speaker. Firs t of all she is this beautiful black woman, with lovely long graying black hair. I love that she embraces her age and wears her mane with pride. Anyway, she is doing some work with Terrell County here in NC. She has some crazy stories. The class was mortified to learn that in the small town where she was working on her project had a “Whites Only” library until 2003. 2003! I just about died on the spot. Of course her story is much more intriguing with stories of the KKK still having regular meetings in this town (as of 2006). Anyway she had us captivated. I found out she was from Texas, so now I like this woman even more. After class the professor invited us to join them for lunch (which was brave since our class is over 100 people). Only four of us took him up on his offer (plus the TAs) but we had a delightful lunch with Kirsten. I could have sat there all day.

THE AUTUMNAL by John Donne

NO spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face ;
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape ;
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame ;
Affections here take reverence's name.
Were her first years the Golden Age ? that's true,
But now they're gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time ;
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes ; who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves ; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, for else he is nowhere.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit,
Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorite,
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he ; though he sojourn everywhere,
In progress, yet his standing house is here ;
Here, where still evening is, not noon, nor night ;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is love's timber ; youth his underwood ;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood ;
Which then comes seasonablest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she ;
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing ;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack ;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade ;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out, than made ;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at resurrection ;
Name not these living death-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes ; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's motion natural is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties ; so
I shall ebb out with them who homeward go.

What a difference an “A” makes…

I have struggled getting adjusted to the rigor of a real university. My days at community college were more like glorified high school. While it kept me on my toes, there was never any question of whether or not I would pass. If fact, it was always just a question of would I make an “A” in the course. Life at a four year university is not quite so simple. In Spanish, I literally would wonder if I would actually pass the class. (Thankfully, I dropped that this semester, but I will be facing it again come the spring.) After concluding my community college career with a 4.0, I have resigned myself that the world will not end if I make a “B” or even a “C” at Carolina. After summer school my GPA at UNC is 3.42. Blah!! That is so hard to contend with. Sooo, I have really been working hard and this semester isn’t all that I had hoped. First of all, it is VERY frustrating because I have no idea where I stand grade wise in a class. I took 3 quizzes in one class before fall break and we still haven’t gotten one of them back yet. I completely bombed the mid-term in that class because I didn’t read the directions on the test. Yes, that’s right… I barely passed because I didn’t do part of the test because I didn’t read. Dumb, dumb, dumb… Anyway, I’m feeling pretty inadequate about now and some of the girls in my class are sheer genius. I have resigned myself to be content with a “C.” I was really dreading getting my mimesis back. My professor goes through his ritual of reading several students poems aloud in class, and the more he reads the more I am convinced “another one bites the dust.” These poems are funny and witty. Mine is somber and melancholy. He spends the entire class period discussing and reading what brilliance my fellow students have achieved. At the end of class, he quickly passes everyone’s papers back. I wait, and wait… is he ever going to get to me?? Did he lose my poem and I’m going to fail the class for sure?? With the final sheet of paper in his hand he calls “Longoria.” AHHH!! I reach for my paper and almost faint dead away on the spot. I got my first “A” in Armitage’s class and all is well with the world. J